your faith walks on broken glass
by dustywords
Summary: Sometimes the darkness is looming behind the name of a long dead king, bringing back the past. Post-Neverland. SQ.


**A/N: **This piece assumes many things: a) this is like a year after the Neverland debacle and the body switching thing never happened, b) Emma is capable of listening, c) Regina is as lost as Emma and d) Snow White is oblivious to the troubles of others and there is no excuse for that and therefore Emma isn't trying to make one. (The title is taken from Green Day's song "21 Guns".)

**Warnings:** Hints at abuse, King Leopold and stuff that would have been rated M, if I had written it out.

* * *

You wake before the alarm clock can disturb the silence. That happens. After years and years, living the same routine your body seems to be perfectly fine to wake itself.

Or maybe it does know you better than you care to admit to your own reflection in the mirror. You like watching her sleep. Not in the creepy way, no. It's not about that. You like watching her simply being there, the rise and fall of her chest, the sound of her breathing. The peace and youth in her face that never lasts once she's awake. You want to keep that picture for ever, maybe to even show it to her whenever she gets that doubtful look in her eyes when you tell her how beautiful she is. (You once even took a picture, on a Sunday morning, the sunlight on her content sleeping face, but the picture got it all wrong, changed things, didn't really catch the moment.)

You sigh. She moves, but doesn't wake.

Sometimes you wish you could save more than just a picture but maybe more something like the whole thing that makes your heart melt and your lips twitch and your worries lighter.

* * *

Nothing good lasts forever.

"I rather stay at home. There is still laundry to do," you tell her and you glare at her that there is still some housework left, even though it was you who had insisted on making the laundry after that one red sock in the white laundry load (both, your white blouses and her white tank tops ruined).

Henry is spending some time with Neal and you two are standing in the kitchen of your now not so big and empty mansion. It's finally your home.

She smiles, knows damn well what you're thinking about right now, and damn her and her smile and that she knows you this well. "Just once. You don't need to hold him. Like, I am almost sure you don't get to hold him," she muses and takes your hand, and why, why is her hand so warm?

It calms you down, this simple gesture. She's your anchor, more often than not and you wonder if she even knows what exactly she means to you besides the obvious love you feel for her. "Very funny, Emma." It's still a sore topic to talk about that fateful night, almost 30 years ago. That night you cast the curse and tried to find her. You wonder what her suspicions about the fact that you were looking for her look like, but you are never going to ask her this. "I don't need to see your brother."

"It's just saying hi to him. We don't have to stay long, I promise."

"We're going to your mother. The last time you promised me that we 'don't have to stay long' was when we told them about our relationship and Emma, we sat there for three hours yelling at them."

She chuckles. "Yeah, that was a mess, huh?"

"You're missing the point." And so does your heart, because it's fluttering at the memory of how Emma had taken your side and protected you and simply chose you. No one had done that before and now is not the moment to think about that because you'll end up smiling about it, which is a wrong thing to do right now.

She comes closer, you can feel the counter behind your back. "Am I?"

"Not that I am surprised," you roll with your eyes, just for good messure.

She chuckles again and kisses you and to hell with everything. You finally surrender.

The Queen surrendering to the White Knight that can't do laundry properly. Life is filled with twists and turns, but oh god with her lips against yours and that smirk that you can feel on your skin there you can't find the strength to care.

* * *

Of course you arrived a bit late. ("And who's fault is that, Miss Swan? It's not that hard to keep your hands to yourself."—"I didn't hear much complaining." A dry chuckle that made you roll your eyes. Again. And then you knocked.)

You don't feel very comfortable in their apartment; Snow and David still didn't find a house to their liking and now they are still here, surrounded by boxes and diaper packages and too much happiness for your liking. But you have to admit, having a child is one of the happiest things that can happen to one and so you understand to a point their bright smiles and their joyful tears when Emma hugs them and leans over her brother in Snow's arms. They don't seem to mind much that they're still in the small apartment and it's not the place (nor the two idiots and their baby) that makes you feel ill. It's something else, but you can't put your finger at what it is.

Maybe the interior. Better not think about it.

He is a cute little boy, you have to admit that. He is nice to look at, a happy baby that makes content noises and tries to reach at something invisible with his tiny fists. Snow is smiling and smiling and looking at that makes your own cheek hurt.

"What did you name him?" Emma's voice is gentle and soft and sincere, because while she's smiling too, you can easily read the sadness in her eyes. Your heart clenches at the sight because there will most likely never be the day Emma stops feeling like an orphan and it is your fault. You sigh. This is not the right place to have an existential crisis.

But it's not the look in her eyes that makes you flinch right now. Somehow your subconscious warns you, yells at you to run, to run out of this apartment before it's too late, before you hear the answer to Emma's question, before—

"We named him after Snow's father!" David laughs, his eyes watery again, his hand never stopping to hover over his son's head. "Leopold. His name is Leopold."

Something breaks.

It sounds like your heart.

You leave without a word.

* * *

Just a name. It's just a name. It's a name like every other. And didn't you name Henry after your father? It was something common in your old land, naming children after their grandparents. But you want to laugh, because your father might have been a fool, a coward and not stepping up for you, but he had been a kind and loving fool that you eventually destroyed on your path of vengeance.

Henry is a name that hurts in a good way. In a never forget the cost of all this way.

You don't cry. You stopped crying over that bastard long before he finally died.

But you can't stop your hands from trembling and you are sitting in your Mercedes and you can't move, you can barely breathe and you miss your anchor, the green eyes, something.

* * *

Emma is suddenly there and she is closing the door and before you know what she's doing you are in her arms and she smells like your washing powder and home and you are only a little embarrassed for the sob and for the dark place you go every time you hear that godforsaken name and for the trembling. Once again, you lost control. You hate it, hate it, hate him.

She doesn't really know what her long dead grandfather did to you and you will never tell her. Some things are even too much for a savior. It's also not about the what, it's more about the why and why me. You were so young and he was so old and he shouldn't have married you.

Snow White didn't need a half grown-up as a new mother. But Emma mustn't know. She mustn't know how your mother destroyed your life. It's not even about Daniel. At some point after that damn wedding it stopped being about Daniel. He was dead and you felt like that.

Sometimes, just like now, you feel like that again.

But there are strong arms and blonde curls and whispered I am here's.

And so you silently weep into her shoulder and let her stroke your back.

"It's not … because she has a kid, is it?" she whispers and there is worry in her voice and something else. Something like uncertainty and a held breath. Something like that's my part to weep about. "It's … the name." Not a question.

Sometimes you want to kiss her and stroke her cheeks and simply thank her for her kind soul. Whatever happened to her, whatever your selfish actions caused her to endure—she is still so pure and good that it not only melts your heart, but it makes you want to literally give her your heart.

She's the only one. The only one who would keep it somewhere safe even though it's black and ugly and still remembers the evil.

"It's the name, yes," you whisper in her ear, finally not shaking so much. The control comes back and you can breathe. You take some deep breaths, enjoying the relief flowing through your whole body. "Maybe we should switch places," you suggest and you want to rub your nose against her cheek, but it might be runny and, dear god, you're still a queen deep down. No.

She pushes you slightly away and frowns. You hate it to let her drive with your Mercedes. She knows that. "Okay?" She tries to smile but the worry is pushing the corners of her mouth quickly back down.

Leopold. Leopold. Leopold.

* * *

You can't sleep. So you leave Emma in the bed, because you fear that the tossing and turning around will wake her. You are surprised she didn't wake up by now, she is a very light sleeper. But maybe this mansion, this bed, you feel like home to her, too.

You smile at that and close the door behind you.

* * *

It's not pulling away, you tell yourself, when you check Henry's room. You could talk to her, you know that, but you just…can't. You sigh and the sight of your sleeping son slows your exhausted heart down.

You feel old. Damaged. Back to square one, back to the very beginning. It's a bad and a good thing. It means that Emma has made you feel like the young innocent girl again and now that name sucks you back to the darkness that you know too well.

Not in the sense that you are getting back to magic and power plays with friends that are actually dragons and many, many lessons with that little imp. There is Henry, there is Emma. Home.

And then there is this name and his daughter that called Emma to ask why you couldn't even pretend to be happy for them and Emma lied and made excuses for you about a migrane, because she doesn't know, she doesn't know, she doesn't know.

"You okay?"

You almost jump. Her arms sneak around your waist from behind and she leans her chin on your shoulder. She likes to do that. Usually in the kitchen while you're preparing dinner to either distract you or to steal food. Sometimes both. You only nod.

"Do you...want to talk?" she whispers softly against your skin there.

"I don't think that would be wise, because—"

Emma kisses your shoulder. She needs to stop that, you decide but no word leaves your mouth. "I am a good listener. And if that doesn't help and you still can't sleep then we can prank call my parents just to wake my brother up and keep 'em up, too."

You laugh softly, a low rumble in your chest. You love her for that. For making you laugh. For planning to prank her own parents just to make you feel better. For calling Snow White's baby my brother and not Leopold, even though she has her own troubles with that term. And it's not really about the age difference, you know that.

You turn around, her hands on your lower back now. "I have a better idea," you announce and kiss her.

She chuckles. "Ah, yes. Way better." And then she lifts you up and you let her because you are a queen and she is the savior and also this is nice.

* * *

"I killed him." You both are still out of breath and you can feel her moving next to you. She crinkles her nose and entangles your fingers and she breathes hard and there is still a thin layer of sweat on her skin and she seems to glow in the darkness of your bedroom.

"Hm?"

"The king. Snow's father. I killed him…or Sidney did, actually." Sidney, who lost his mind after the curse broke and who needs to stay in the asylum because that is his new mirror. His new prison. Otherwise he would follow you around, and—you shudder. No, he's good there. It's a cruel fate, you muse, but necessary.

Life is cruel. You close your eyes. "Stands the offer?"

She lies back down again, kisses your knuckles and doesn't let go of that hand. "About listening? Yeah, it does. I even try to not fall asleep." It's a joke, you can hear her smirk and you allow a thin sad smile on your lips because you doubt she'll fall asleep after this story.

You need her to know that. To give her a real choice. "It's an ugly story, not a bedtime story, dear."

"I gathered that from your reaction after you heard the name," she mumbles softly and you finally look at her. "But that's okay and the offer still stands. Even if it's not about rainbows and unicorns."

You really don't know how this line developed into an inside joke between the two of you but it did and now you both can't undo it and it sometimes comes up again.

You touch her cheek, just to check if she's real. Sometimes you don't believe it.

And then you tell her everything, not the what, not really, but the why and the why me and she understands. She listens and doesn't interrupt and her eyes are even in the darkness soft. Emma Swan understands and she kisses your forehead and for once you are happy that you are breaking your own rules and that you told her. You feel a little bit better. Lighter.

Emma kisses your nose. "It's okay to hate the name." She is careful enough not to say it. Her thumb strokes your cheek and catches a tear during its fall. "It's okay to hate my mom a little bit for picking it," she continues. "And it's okay to not like him much right now."

"Like you?"

"I..." She swallows. "I try to like him. Love him. But..." She struggles and suddenly it's you who is kissing her forehead, her nose and stroking her cheek. You are lying face to face, sharing one pillow, the same air, home.

"That is okay, too." You don't need to tell her what you mean.

* * *

The next morning is a Sunday morning and it's raining. It's almost 6 a.m. and you don't really know what woke you up. After your long talk last night and her silent admission that she indeed can't shake the feeling of replacement off of her shoulders you've fallen asleep in each others arms and it happens like never, because you hate the feeling of arms around you. It reminds you of being trapped. Not being able to breathe.

But this is different and you smile and you wish you'd known about this. Waking up like this is so much different.

You can feel her heartbeat against your back.

You can feel her breath against your neck.

And her warmth.

You listen to the rain and then she's awake and you smile. Her grip tightens a bit, her curls a tickling your bare back and she hums lightly. "Hi."

"Hi."

"I've been thinking."

"That must caused the rain then," you tease her and you refer to one of many failed magic lessons. Some of them involved water and puddles in your study.

She smacks you lightly on the shoulder. "That's like ages ago!"

You chuckle softly. "Anyway, what were you thinking about?"

There is a small pause and you feel her fingers ghosting above your hip under the sheets before she speaks again. "Would...would Leo work? You know this world has anyway a knack for nicknames and it's going to happen anyway so why not being the first ones to call him that?"

"This is...yes, I think this would work."

And it's not just something you say to make her feel better and less worried about this whole thing, no, you really believe that this is going to help. It might be just a name, but god, it means a lot to you that she spent time to think about that. And Leo is not Leopold and you are not really just referring to the names here but to the person in general. You doubt that Emma's little brother is going to be a greedy, selfish king one day. You sincerely hope with all your heart it's not going to be the case. Shortening the name might not take the pain and the memories away you will involuntarily have as soon as you hear the whole name, but it'll help you to look at him and recognize him as Emma's little brother.

You accept the new reality and you can breathe a bit lighter than yesterday. You want to ask her if you still can deliver her idea of calling him Leo from now on via a prank call to her parents. It's early, after all. But instead you enjoy the silence, the rain, home.

Another pause, more ghosting fingers and traced patterns on your skin. "Good. This is good." An amused chuckle. "We could still call my parents and tell them the news," she snickers behind you and you join her and sometimes you are convinced that she can actually read your mind.

One day you are going to marry her for that.


End file.
